A Pox Upon My House and a Quiz Answer Revealed

Be it a Shakespearean character, Karma or just plain bad luck, my house has been stricken...


Monday night I got a migraine and yesterday I was nursing a migraine hangover most of the day.


I was stressing a little about dealing with my first day of the semester when I heard my son walk in (two hours before school was due to let out). He had called Paul while Paul was out running errands.


He was shivering and pale, complaining about a stomachache. I sent him to bed.


Great. Migraine hangover, sick kid and Paul was packing for an early evening flight.


I made it to school and survived just fine. Paul's parents came over to stay with the kids.


After classes, I took Colin's temp and then decided to take Marley's, just in case. It was 99.9. I talked myself into believing it was a fluke.


And now, it is 3something in the morning, Colin just finished throwing up, he's shivering again and I take Marley's temperature again. 102.something.


Crap.


Welcome to the Spring Semester.



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Many of you rightly guessed that I am the Mrs. Bennet of parental driving instruction. Some of you were kind and guessed more charitable answers. Alpha DogMa was creative and thought outside of the box--Miss Daisy was not a choice. Gratefully, no one suggested Nurse Ratched.



I don't know exactly what I thought I would be like, but I wasn't expecting to have fits of hysterical giggling as every muscle in the right side of my body clenched itself into multiple balls of clenchisity.



Seriously. I am ridiculous. Well, I'm less ridiculous about it now that I've had a little experience.



Fortunately, my son has taken this with an inexplicable and uncustomary amount of good humor and grace. He must really, really, really want to drive.



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A note about the quiz. I got the idea for the quiz post and told Colin about it. He looked at me and then proceeded to inform me that it was the most literature-nerdy stupidness he had ever heard of.


To me, that sounds like a compliment!

Literary Behind-the-Wheel

My son now has his learner's permit and, as is typical of most 15 year-olds with learner permits, is eager to drive--anywhere and everywhere. This means that sometimes I am the parent driving with my son as the "designated responsible person age 25 or older."

For laughs, I thought I'd give you all a little quiz.

Which literary character am I most like as I teach my son to drive a car?

Atticus Finch? Capable, wise, disciplined, unflappable?

Nurse Ratchit? Controlling, cruel, demanding

Mrs. Bennett? Loud, easily startled, given to fits of hysterical giggling and exclamatory remarks?

Mrs. March? Gentle, wise, soft-spoken

Mr. Bennett? Quippy, detached, overly lenient?

What's your best guess?

Wanted: Life Narrator

I've decided that I need a narrator, like Mary Alice on Desperate Housewives or Irv during the first couple of seasons of Everwood. A warm, soothing voice to look at all that is going on in my life and the lives of those around me. A voice to pull together common themes in those lives and which can then wrap up everything weekly in a nice, coherent package. Anyone know where I can find one of those?

If you are interested in applying, here's what you need to do for your interview. Take the following pictures and make with the narration.

New Headband

New Haircuts

Big Lizard

Site of Future Sunflower Fort

Pumpkin Patch

Sleeping with Bread: with bloghorrea and very few commas

My mind is ajumble right now. It has been a long, but good, day. Bobby, the hamster is spinning madly around his little pink wheel, all set to ride to Nowheresville for the next eight hours. The whrrr, whrrr, whrrr of his plastic transport provides the background noise for this post. I've got something of a headache and I don't know if it is from allergies, too much sun (Yes. You read that right. It was in the low 80s today.), or low blog sugar levels. I want to watch TV, finish reading What is the What, and blog simultaneously. I know I can manage two out of three, but three out of three would probably make my already aching head explode. I'm using the laptop and a wireless connection which has already proved unreliable enough that an utterly brilliant comment was lost over at The Ravin' Picture Maven's most recent post. (The only good thing about it being lost is that I can claim it as genius and no one can prove otherwise! Hah!) So, what's a woman to do on a night like this? Ramble on like a maniac, of course. It's free form Sleeping with Bread where you take a bunch of ingredients, throw them together in the bread machine and hope it turns out all right.

First, the ingredients, in no particular order.

One viewing of Amazing Grace

One husband on a business trip from Tuesday to Sunday

One son, age 14, put on a plane as an unaccompanied minor for the first time on Friday, returned with father on Sunday

One trip to Petco to leave guinea pigs for adoption

One white-with-black eyes dwarf male hamster purchased complete with all pink Crittertrail cage, breast cancer awareness version. (Really.)

One windy two hour session at Sam's Club selling Girl Scout cookies with clingy daughter who won't speak or look at one person.

One weekend of bad food choices which virtually wipe out all floater points on Weight Watchers plan for the week

One does of further engrossment (Is that a word?) in What is the What

One trip out to the movies with sweet, thoughtful friend (See Amazing Grace above.)

One deduction of 1.5 pounds from total body weight (measured before weekend food binge)

One weekend with daughter alone

One purchase spree of too many items in one weekend for daughter

One generous dash of food for thought regarding identity crisis (see talk with thoughtful friend), purpose and calling in life (see Amazing Grace), epiphany regarding Year of Restraint (in car alone)

Mix all these ingredients together and you come up with a jumbled up, tired in a good way woman.

A woman who is thankful for her comfortable bed at 8:41 at night.

A woman who is a little sun- and wind-burnt.

A woman who was surprised at how well her daughter entertained herself at home while said daughter's brother was out of town.

A woman who cannot stand the state of her house one more week and has requested her husband take a day off this week, said day to be dedicated to the ordering of the household--no excuses.

A woman who is relieved her son's travel was without incident.

A woman who cannot get out of her head the use of the term unaccompanied minor in the book What is the What to describe these poor Sudanese boys who experienced so much over so many years and then cannot help but compare their experience to that of her son who, for a fee of $75, was literally escorted to and from the plane and handed into the hands of his father in Dallas.

A woman who's ready to watch Heroes and get lost in the world of cheerleaders who can't die, policeman who can read minds, artists who paint the future, political hopefuls who can fly, former Dr. Whos who are invisible, cute Japanese men who manipulate time and desire to fulfill their destiny to be heroes.

As always, this week's Sleeping with Bread posts will be found here.

Sleeping with Bread: with Joys and D'ohs

As I approached this SWB post today, I realized that I'm in something of a mood. I'm sure hormones are a major factor in this moodiness. I told a friend today that I had thrown out the junk in the fridge because I wanted Paul to clean it. I found myself irritated with him about it and I hadn't even asked him to do it yet! That's a no win situation for him, isn't it? Then I found myself about to cry when I was watchng The Incredibles with Marley earlier. (The scene where Helen is trying is trying in vain to get Syndrome to call back the missles.) So, instead of writing a thoughtful post based on the SWB questions, I though I'd share about some of the joy in my life this week... and maybe some of the "D'oh!" moments, too.

First, the joys. I was poking around my picture boxes and found some pictures that I just love.

This is Marley about 8 months old. Looking at it six years later, I recognize something in her expression that I didn't see then. I'm sure when I took it I just thought she was making a cute, scrunched up face. Now... now I see the face that I've seen a thousand times since--her wild thing face. When she is feeling feisty and full of herself, we often are treated to that face and usually an accompanying snarl. I'm not sure that I've always appreciated that expression but I've come to know that it is the essence of my live-in-the-moment, no-holds-barred, free spirit daughter. I keep going back to this picture over and over again. I am amazed at how strongly her personality was developed back then and, in that way that all parents are, astonished at how much she has grown up.

See, all grown up (sort of) and there's that face!



Here she is about four months old. Look at those chubby legs and double chin! This from a girl who, aside from when she was born, was never above the 10 percentile in weight her first 18 months. She still managed some rolls. We had just come home from buying her that doll and I laugh when I see how big it was next to her. It also cracks me up that she and the doll are positioned the same--even their hands are held the same way. (This was probably the one and only time she wore a headband bow. I was never a big fan of them, especially the ginormous tulle ones but her daddy absolutely detested them.) She still has that doll although there are one or two above it now in her hierarchy of doll love.

I also came across pictures of He Who Wishes Not to be Mentioned, and although I will respect his desire not to have pictures shown (this week at least), I will share a story about him which brought me joy a few days ago. HWWNTBM had an assignment for English to write a letter from the point of view of a character in a story they had read in class about a teenage girl who is raped and copes with it by becoming mute. The students were to write a letter ten years from the time of the story to either the rapist, the girl's art teacher or her best friend. HWNTBM was struggling to get started and told me he didn't know what to write. These letters were to be read aloud in class and he wanted it to be good. I tried to give him some ideas of approaches he could take. Eh, he wasn't too thrilled with my suggestions. "I'm just going to start writing," he told me and that was that.

A day or two later, I asked him how the letter ended up. He shot me a sideways smile and said that it went "good." He proceeded to tell me that his letter had the girl disclosing to her former art teacher that she was a superhero. Her secret identity by day was an emotionally scarred artist. By night, though, she was a superhero who hunted rapists. I loved his approach (the teacher had offered complete creative control on the assignment) especially the superhero aspect. (I'm a superhero fan; X-men, Justice League, Batman, The Tick--I love them all.) Mostly though, I found joy in his creativity and in his pride in himself. I think an assignment like that could be difficult for a 14 year old. Putting yourself in the position of someone who's experienced something traumatic and trying to imagine what they might have to say 10 years later? I think that kind of insight is hard for a lot of people, not just a teenage boy. But HWWNTBM made it work and I felt joy in his success.

Now, a couple of D'oh moments.

I was drinking a Cherry Coke Zero last night. Paul took a sip and said that it was the real thing. No, I countered, it's diet. I picked up the can and looked. Sure enough, it was regular Cherry Coke. So, little Miss Weight Watchers had been drinking the real thing for a couple of days and hadn't realized it. D'oh! So much for my point tracking.

This next one falls into the category of Mother of the Year. Marley has been sick since yesterday. She's been running a fever and had a little bit of a cough and stomachache (no vomit, though, whoopee!) I rarely take her temperature because she fusses about it so much and all I have is a glass thermometer. I also wasn't giving her Tylenol because I've always been told that unless they are feeling really bad or the temp is pretty high, it isn't necessary. The fever is just their body working on the infection, blah, blah, blah. Well, I had to go out and run some errands, so I decided to go ahead and buy one of those ear thermometers. Marley's cheeks were red and I thought maybe I should make sure her fever wasn't too high. Well, I get out the thermometer to take her temperature (are you guessing where this is going?) and it was 104.3! Double D'oh! I gave her Tylenol immediately and she has now settled into the 102 range. Goodness, I should have my mothering license revoked.

Well, I guess those are my joys and D'ohs this week. As always, you can find links to more Sleeping with Bread here.

Kindergarten

She walked into the classroom, son’s hand in hers, and looked at all the desks, searching for his name. Colorful and inviting, the walls were decorated and the room ready for its new students. Today was the kindergarten tea, a time for her son, along with his classmates, to see his classroom and to meet his teacher so that he would be more comfortable for his first day of class. She didn’t anticipate any trouble. He had attended preschool on that campus for three years and she worked at the church office just across the parking lot. He was in comfortable and familiar territory.

As she showed her son all the room had to offer, a wave of emotion swept over her. Afraid she would start crying, she made excuses to leave early. Hurrying out, she took some deep breaths and the emotion subsided. What was that? she asked herself. She was confused by the strength of feeling and unable to identify the specific emotion. She knew some mothers became emotional as their children started school but surely this was too strong a feeling to be that. Besides, she told herself, he had been in preschool for so long and would just be across the parking lot from her. She hadn’t thought this would bother her.

Pushing the thoughts and emotions aside, she went about her business the next couple of days. The first days of kindergarten were uneventful. Her son was fine. She was able to suppress any overwhelming feelings yet was never completely at ease. Friday came, and with it, the first school chapel. This was the only day the children had a specific dress code: shirts with collars and pants for the boys, skirts or dresses for the girls. No shorts allowed. The no shorts rule presented her with her first power struggle of elementary school. He only liked jeans or shorts and t-shirts. No collars on his shirts and no fat pants--his name for anything other than the hand-me-down Wrangler jeans he favored.

“It’s the rules. You have to wear this.” she stated patiently.

“No! I want shorts!” he demanded.

“You can’t wear shorts. It says in the student handbook. No shorts. I read it. You have to respect the rules even if you don’t agree with them.” she attempted to reason with him. Eventually, she won the battle but not without losing her patience and it was exhausting. At the chapel hour, she headed over to the auditorium to sneak a peek at her little boy. The students filed in, class by class. She noticed one student, then another and another in shorts.

"Wait a minute. What is going on here?" she thought. Spotting Karen, the school vice principal and a good friend, she made her way over to her.

“Karen, so many boys are wearing shorts. The handbook said no shorts.”

“No, dress shorts are allowed.” Karen answered matter-of-factly.

“I read through it more than once. I’m sure it said no shorts at all. I would have let him wear shorts. He wanted to wear shorts,” she began to get distressed.

“No. It says dress shorts are acceptable.” her friend reassured her.

She did not believe this and wouldn’t accept it until the manual was brought out. There in black and white were the words she had missed for some reason.

“For boys, acceptable dress includes collared shirts including knit polo shirts tucked in, pants, dress shorts, belt, sneakers...”

The dam burst of tears was released. All that fighting and struggle for nothing. Her friend tried to console her but she wasn’t in a place to be comforted. The emotion that began the day of the kindergarten tea was released now like a tidal wave and it had to run its course. She made her way back to her office sobbing. She would get the tears under control until someone would walk by and ask her what was wrong.

“I made him wear pants! I’m a horrible mom!” she wailed. The men in her office, while sympathetic, did not quite understand this response. They humored her and gave her hugs, reassuring her that she was a wonderful mom. Although the shorts issue didn’t make sense to them, they were dads and knew not to reason with a mom in this state. After she calmed down, she decided to try to at least alleviate her mistake. Rushing home, she picked up some suitable shorts and took them to his class. After asking permission from his teacher to help him change, she took her son into the class bathroom. As she helped him, she apologized tearfully.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I read the handbook wrong and you are able to wear nice shorts.” He was happy to have shorts but otherwise seemed none the worse for wear. Obviously this was an experience that scarred only the mother and not the son.

Over the next few days, with a little distance, she began to recognize the emotion she had been feeling: grief. That first shocking emotion that day in class was grief. She realized it now. It was the same feeling she experienced at the death of her grandfather, her brother, her grandmother. It didn’t make sense to her, though. Nobody had died. Her son had just started school.

Eventually she realized it wasn’t about being overprotective or nervous about her son’s readiness for school...

It wasn’t about being a horrible mother...

It wasn’t about shorts...

It was about what his beginning kindergarten represented: the death of his unencumbered life and his entering into a world of expectation and responsibility. He was no longer a child free of the world. Her baby was hers alone no longer. He was part of the world now.

He was ready. She was not.




Izzy over at Izzy Mom recently talked about her daughter's first day of kindergarten. This post, combined with Colin's starting high school in a few weeks, got me started remembering my son's first days of kindergarten and my less than composed response to it some nine years ago. It should be noted that when Marley started kindergarten last year, it was a little emotional for me, but I still practically skipped all the way to the car!